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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24240691">An Exclusive with the Queen</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/pseuds/vivilove'>vivilove</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Career Day Romance [18]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire &amp; Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Jon is an investigative journalist, Light Angst, Modern Royalty, One Night Stands, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Secret Identity, Sexual Content, Wigs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:07:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,782</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24240691</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/pseuds/vivilove</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tomorrow morning, famed reporter J. Targaryen's got an exclusive interview scheduled with the young Queen in the North, Sansa Stark.  </p><p>Tonight, Jon's at the hotel bar having drinks with Alayne.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jon Snow/Alayne Stone, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Career Day Romance [18]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/696723</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>137</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>473</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Queen Sansa Jonsa Event</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For @jonsa-creative's Queen Sansa Event on Tumblr celebrating our Queen in the North.  </p><p>Thank you, Lisa, for the beautiful poster!  (For some reason, it's not displaying on my mobile device when I click on the fic but it does on my laptop.  I've linked to my Tumblr <a href="https://vivilove-jonsa.tumblr.com/post/618939301083938816/tomorrow-morning-famed-reporter-j-targaryens">HERE</a> in case you'd like to see it and it won't display for you.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Three stools down, two businessmen are debating his latest piece, a scathing investigative report he’d spent months on regarding the corruption in the capital and Tywin Lannister, the tycoon industrialist’s ties to that, while never knowing that J. Targaryen, one of the most respected and widely read reporters in the Crownlands, is seated less than ten feet away and can hear their every word.</p><p>He doesn’t mind that one man condemns his findings while the other praises his meticulous research in defense of them. The news shouldn’t be all manufactured media and fluff pieces spoon fed to an unthinking populace. A good reporter should make people question the status quo and look at what they <em>think</em> they know in a different light.</p><p>There’s already rumors circulating that it might win him the Scribe Prize this year, Westerosi Journalism’s most prestigious award. He’s not very confident about those rumors, he’d be the youngest recipient of it ever, but he’s damn proud of his work.</p><p>It’s odd being famous in a manner of speaking but never recognized. Most people always seem to comment on his age when he’s introduced. ‘I expected you to be older,’ the inevitable refrain. It’s alright. He’s quite certain he prefers this semi-anonymous, faceless brand of celebrity to being stopped everywhere he goes.</p><p>Jon continues sipping his whiskey at The Painted Table, Dragonstone Suites’ posh, inhouse watering hole. It’s quite busy tonight. As the alcohol soothes his jetlagged nerves and sore muscles and the leather-bound bar stool gives him a good view of the crowd, he discreetly watches people mixing and mingling, flirting or arguing over their drinks, and wonders what various stories he might discover. But, he’s not here for those stories. He’s already got an assignment. Tomorrow morning, he’ll be meeting royalty for an exclusive one-on-one interview in this very hotel.</p><p>It’s not his typical sort of piece, to be sure, but Margaery has fallen ill and Jon had been tagged to take this interview. He doesn’t expect it to be hard-hitting in the slightest but he’d certainly not turned it down, oh no.</p><p>The newly crowned Queen in the North, Sansa Stark, has been on a whirlwind tour of the other Six Kingdoms, ostensibly, to cultivate hospitable relations between the other leaders of their united kingdoms after her older brother’s unexpected abdication.</p><p><em>“You’re northern. She might open up you more readily,”</em> his editor had reasoned.</p><p>He <em>is</em> northern, born and bred, and Jon recalls images of the royal family coming through the telly on important occasions from a very young age. But after his mum’s death when he’d been fifteen, his father had taken him South with him and the comings and goings of the Starks had faded from the forefront of his thoughts.</p><p>But Margaery has said there’s rumors that the lovely queen may be seeking a spouse as well on this tour. Jon had rolled his eyes when she’d shared that with him in her flat where he’d been comparing notes with her. <em>“She’s only twenty-two.”</em></p><p><em>“So? You know how the royals are,”</em> Marg had shrugged. When it comes to its various royal families, Westeros can be a bit antiquated about royals marrying royals. <em>“The Prince of Dorne’s a looker and single.”</em></p><p><em>“A sound basis for any marriage,”</em> he’d said dryly. <em>“And that guy’s a puffed up arse.”</em></p><p>Margaery had laughed and said, <em>“Well, maybe a handsome reporter will sweep her off her feet first.”</em></p><p>Jon had rolled his eyes even harder though his cheeks had grown warm as well. Margaery had unveiled his interest in the queen a while ago.</p><p><em>“Doesn’t everyone have a celebrity crush?”</em> she’d teased.</p><p>
  <em>“Everyone who's fourteen maybe."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Oh, come off it, Jon."</em>
</p><p><em>"It's ridiculous, Margaery.”</em> </p><p>Even though it’s true that he harbors some boyishly romantic feelings when it comes to his homeland's queen.</p><p>Everything Jon’s learned of Queen Sansa, he’s been enthralled. No longer a little girl with braids who would soberly wave to the crowds by her parents’ or brother’s side, she’d grown into a compassionate, intelligent and dutiful leader who puts her people’s interest and needs above her vain wishes. Oh, he’s met a few other royals in his line of work, self-centered individuals the lot of them, drunk on their self-righteous belief that they know best and that they were ‘born’ to rule. But not Sansa Stark from what he can tell.</p><p>What’s that?</p><p>Oh yes. Sansa Stark happens to be beautiful as well with her auburn hair and sky blue eyes. At least, she is from what he sees of her on television and in the papers.</p><p>But that meeting is tomorrow and tonight Jon’s enjoying a quiet drink in the hotel bar before he’ll turn in and hope to get a decent night’s sleep before his interview at nine in the morning.</p><p>“Mind if I sit here?” a feminine voice says from beside him.</p><p>Despite having something of a way with words ordinarily, Jon forgets how words work when he raises his eyes from his tumbler.</p><p>
  <em>“Uhmmm…”</em>
</p><p>A lush thick braided rope of sable hangs over one pale shoulder as the beauty with sparkling blue eyes in her little red dress smiles expectantly at him. Gods, be good, she's a knockout.  She's younger than him, maybe five years or so but she's not a kid.  As his monosyllabic utterance stretches on, her smile begins to turn upside down.</p><p><em>“Uhhhhoo</em>-of course, you can!” He winces at how he'd practically shouted that.  That was the total opposite of smooth. “Please, take a seat,” he says more calmly as he raises his hand for the bartender. He’s better than this. He’s not so easily bowled over by a pretty woman.</p><p>“Thank you. There weren’t many spots available.”</p><p>She’s right. It isn’t that large of a bar and, at the moment, Jon is exceedingly glad of it. He glances at the same two men arguing over his article, a bit more heatedly now.</p><p>There’s three women laughing loudly at one end and a rather brutish man sitting by himself and looking sullen at the other. Jon supposes he looked like the least intimidating party to approach.</p><p>“May I get you something?” he asks when the bartender appears.</p><p>“Oh, that’s not necessary,” she demurs.</p><p>“Perhaps not but I’d like to get you a drink. No strings attached, I promise. You’re welcome to ignore me while you drink it even.”</p><p>He can see her fighting a losing battle with her smirk before she places her little purse on the bar between them. “Very well. You may buy me a drink and maybe I’ll buy your next one.”</p><p>He nods as the bartender arrives. She orders a glass of Arbor Gold and he asks for another whiskey and they begin to talk.</p><p>When the drinks arrive, he clinks his glass against hers. “Cheers.”</p><p>“Cheers to you…”</p><p>“Jon.”</p><p>“Jon,” she repeats, her voice a velvety rich contralto that stirs him. “I’m Ss-alayne.”</p><p>“Salayne?”</p><p>“Sorry, no. Just Alayne,” she corrects, tugging at her braid with a blush.</p><p>It’s a pretty blush. He might like to tug on that braid, too. “Alayne’s a pretty name.” <em>And you’re a beautiful woman.</em> He doesn’t say that though, just like he won’t say that his reporter’s instincts can’t help but wonder if she’s just told him a lie.</p><p><em>“You’re too suspicious by nature, Jon,”</em> Sam had told him once.</p><p>Maybe so.</p><p>He can pass a pleasant half hour sharing a drink with Alayne without digging too deep into any of this, can’t he?</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She pulls out her phone and texts Arya: <em>Thank you again for the gift.</em></p><p>Her sister gives her a thumb’s up, no doubt busy with her own plans tonight.  Of everyone, Arya understands her desire to get away, make an escape.  </p><p>The wig has been hidden in the side pocket of her carryon for three weeks and this has been her first chance to wear it. All the pieces of the puzzle were in place. Tom as her guard for the night, a large enough hotel for her to blend in and nothing on her agenda for ten splendid hours, nothing until she meets with J. Targaryen in the morning for her interview.</p><p>Mordane has warned her not to let the tenacious reporter get impertinent or too forward with her, saying he doesn’t show the proper respect to the wealthy and powerful of Westeros. Sansa rather likes that about him, to be honest.</p><p>She’d been alright when they’d asked her to sit down for a fluff piece with Margaery Tyrell but, once she’d learned it would Targaryen interviewing her, she’d been quite curious. What’s he like in person? She feels like she knows him in a strange way just from reading his countless articles and such. Of course, that’s silly. She doesn’t know him any more than he knows her. They’ll meet as strangers tomorrow morning and, more than likely, they’ll part as strangers in all the ways that matter once the interview is concluded.</p><p>Sansa creeps out of the bedroom to the sound of the action flick blaring in the suite's sitting room and Tom snoring away. She feels more than a touch of guilt doing this to him. He’s so sweet and Jory’s sure to make him regret overindulging on turkey at dinner and falling asleep while it’s his watch but she can’t help it. This is her chance to live a little. Must a queen always be a slave to duty?</p><p>She glances in the mirror at the girl in the expensive wig staring back at her. “Alayne. I am Alayne.”</p><p>She slips out the door, wincing at the clacking sound it makes behind her before scurrying down the hall past the suite where the others are staying tonight and to the elevators.</p><p>Red dress, red lips, high heels and a night out. She could almost be any young woman on a Saturday night, single and carefree.  </p><p>She won’t stay long, just a drink among strangers, maybe some conversation, perhaps a side of flirting even. Anything just to have thirty minutes to herself where she doesn’t have to be Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North, and no one expects her to be solving problems, considering options, making decisions, putting on a brave front or charming diplomats, the media or the crowds that swarm her every public appearance for a little while.</p><p>It’s been two years since she split from Harry, back when she was Princess Sansa with no thoughts of wearing the crown. She’s not missed him one whit. The Dornish prince was too bold and too full of himself, not to her liking at all. The heir to the Reach had been polite but dull as powder. She also understands now why Robb struggled so much with this and had decided to abdicate at last after he'd fallen in love with a beauty from Essos.  The unspoken pressure to marry another noble is there but the law regarding a reigning monarch not being allowed to marry someone not of Westerosi descent is crystal clear. It’s stupid really and those rules are in sore need of a review.</p><p>
  <em>Well, it’s not as if you’re ready to run off and marry anyway.</em>
</p><p>The elevator doors open on the first floor and she can immediately hear that steady hum of low music playing and conversation drifting down the hallway. It makes her smile. People just getting together over drinks and talking.  No flashing cameras, no one shouting her name. She can be as normal as anyone.  </p><p>A group of tourists comes her way and she starts to shrink back behind a planter. But they don’t know her. They walk right past her. True, she’s not as readily recognized here on Dragonstone as she is in the North but her picture’s plastered in print enough for her to rarely escape notice for long. She breathes a sigh of relief and continues on, entering The Painted Table on her own.</p><p>She takes a deep breath to have a look around, surprised to see it so full of people. It’s nearing midnight. Don’t these people have somewhere to be? <em>Not everyone’s life is scheduled to the minute by an itinerary.</em> She chuckles to herself and heads towards the bar.</p><p>There’s three women laughing at the bar and she thinks it would be lovely to join them and maybe learn what’s so funny. She wishes Jeyne or Arya were here but they're back home and Mordane’s the extent of her female company on this trip. One of the girls notices her and Sansa’s breath catches in her throat. Does she recognize her? No, she’s just sizing her up. There’s three men at a nearby table shooting looks at them and, based on the less than friendly look Sansa receives from the woman and her friends a second later, she’s clearly been marked as a rival. <em>Oh well.</em></p><p>There’s two men bickering, older men in business suits, one with sandy blond hair and one with an olive complexion and silver hair. She won’t wedge her way in there.</p><p>There’s two men on their own; one a very displeased looking individual and the other…<em>oh my.</em></p><p>Gods, he’s handsome and sitting there all alone sipping his drink. Dark curls, glasses, a brooding sort of intensity, maybe closer to thirty than twenty-five but that's alright.  Not too old.  Not as old as the heir to the Reach, that's for sure. </p><p><em>He looks lonely</em>, she tells herself.  </p><p>Plucking up her courage, she approaches. She spies no wedding band, nor a tan line giving away a missing one. She can enjoy a drink and maybe make a little conversation with him, can’t she? She certainly hopes so.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Three glasses of wine for her and he’s on this fourth whiskey. He’s pleasantly buzzed now and they’ve been talking for forty-five minutes straight.  He doesn't drink this much ordinarily.  He likes to keep a clear head but he wouldn't want to allow Alayne to outpace him.  That might seem like an unfair advantage.  </p><p>She keeps tugging at the braid and he’s mesmerized by her blue eyes and her smile. She looks familiar in a way but that’s probably just the drinks and his fatigued state playing tricks on him. Or maybe she’s a model or some actress whose name he just doesn’t recall. She’s certainly stunning enough to be one. It makes no difference. Right now, she’s here with him and they can be two people at a bar, Jon and Alayne, no more, no less.</p><p>There’s been a few awkward patches. Chatting up strangers is part of his job but, in this environment, there’s a different feel to it, an awareness of where this form of chatting up might lead.</p><p>And there’s something very unpracticed about her. He thinks she’s used to talking to all manner of people and yet, she’s a novice at this…<em>flirtation</em>. That's clearly what she's doing but he can't say anything since he's playing along.  Still, it’s like she’s trying out a role, seeing how it suits her. Is she lonely? Lusty? She wears no ring and she’s young. Nothing wrong if she wants a bit of fun but he’s willing to bet money this would be her first one-night stand, assuming he’s not misreading her blushes, the way she licks her lips or how that delicate hair on her arm keeps raising whenever he ‘accidentally’ brushes her hand.  Her skin is so soft.  He can't help it.  </p><p>He sets down his tumbler for the final time.  No more booze tonight. Tomorrow’s an important day.</p><p>They’ve talked about work. He’s a writer. She enjoys charity stuff. The ‘stuff’ was very vague. Then again, he’d hardly clarified the type of writing he does.</p><p>She’d immediately noted his Northern accent. She’s got one as well but it’s more polished, less obvious. Her parents are gone like his mum.  He feels sorry for her though she speaks warmly of her siblings.  His relationship with his father is strained and her murmured words of sympathy don't feel empty, aren't infused with false cheer. They’re almost reminiscing about people neither one has met. It’s odd how they click even between the awkward beats.  Is that the liquor or her and him?  He'd like to find out.  </p><p>"When's your flight out of here?"</p><p>"Tomorrow afternoon," she says, sounding regretful though she's already mentioned missing home.  Is <em>he</em> why she sounds regretful?  <em>Getting ahead of yourself, Jon</em>.  "What about you?"</p><p>"Same actually.  Back to Kings Landing."</p><p>"Right."  </p><p>Another half hour passes and he’s on his sixth whiskey. So much for setting limits.</p><p>“I really have to stop.”</p><p>“Me, too,” she hums, setting her wine glass down. “But I’m having a good time talking to you.”</p><p>“Yeah, same here.”</p><p>He is. He hates for this to end. He could ask her back to his room but, even though their hands have grazed several times by now, far too many to be labeled as an accident, he doesn’t know if they’re there yet and this isn't honestly his style.  A couple of times, yes.  And gods, yes, he wants her but one-night stands are often messier than intended and Jon tends to be careful when it comes to women and intimacy.</p><p>Music’s playing and there’s a little corner in the bar reserved for dancing. The three women from down at the end have been swaying with the fellows over at one of the tables off and on but it looks like they’re all ready to drift off for the evening. Together or separately? It’s not been decided yet.</p><p>“Would you want to dance?” he asks, nodding towards the other couples.</p><p>She bites at her lip in the most adorably pleased manner. “Yes, I would.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>He smells so good, like cedarwood and whiskey. He’s holding her just right, firmly but not too firmly. When's the last time she got to dance like this?  Not at some formal ball with all eyes on her, waiting for a misstep, but just being held by a handsome man and swaying to a slow song?</p><p>The song is almost over.  She can make her excuses, thank him for the drinks and company and slip off back to her room to fantasize about handsome Jon as she touches herself in the dark. That's safest and probably what she <em>should</em> do, return to her life as Sansa Stark. Maybe Tom’s still snoring to his action film and no one will even know about her escape.</p><p>She feels foolish in a way, a grown woman who must sneak out like some teenager to go dance with a boy.  She likes this boy though.  Or rather, she likes this man.</p><p>He’s got confidence but it’s tempered with some reserve. He’s no Harry, no puffed-up Dornish prince. He’s no rambling fool with wandering eyes or an overly inflated sense of self.  He's just Jon and he makes her feel listened to as well as desirable.</p><p>
  <em>He makes Alayne feel that way.  </em>
</p><p>She hates lying to him about who she is.  Maybe he wouldn't care but she's afraid to find out, afraid of him acting differently, treating her differently.  The lies make her feel guilty and her eyes skitter away from his intense dark gaze when she thinks too hard on it.</p><p>“You alright?” he asks, the rich, deep rasp of his voice making all the hair on her body stand on end again in the most delicious manner.</p><p>“Yeah, I was just…”</p><p>He tightens his hold on her slightly, like he suspects she’s about to end it. She doesn’t want to end it. She wants him.  </p><p>“Would you, um...want to get out of here?”  He blinks, surprised, and she can't shut up.  "I mean with me?  We could..."  Dear gods, she feels her stomach bottoming out no sooner than the words slip past her lips. She can’t draw a breath until he answers. She’ll race out of here with tears welling in her eyes if he shoots her down because she’s a silly romantic at heart and she wants to <em>believe</em> in <em>something</em>.</p><p>He doesn’t shoot her down but his eyes are appraising.  It's as if he’s reading all her secret thoughts.  She trembles slightly at the notion.  </p><p>“Yeah, let's go,” he answers at last.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Ordinarily, this is not like him.  The alcohol's working on his inhibitions.  He can't bring himself to care...and yet, he does.  She's never done this before.  There's absolutely no question in his mind about that now.  She's younger than him, seven years between them.  But she says she wants this and gods, does he wants <em>her</em>.</p><p>Should he hold her hand? Wrap an arm around her waist? Maybe it’s better this way, let her follow him down the never ending hallway as she pleases, just in his wake. If she changes her mind, he’ll be disappointed but he would never hold it against her.</p><p>“This is me,” he announces at last, only fumbling slightly as he pulls his keycard out.</p><p>“Great,” she says softly, looking over her shoulder uncertainly.</p><p>He sees a flash of vulnerability there, a hint of a little girl lost.  He doesn't want to hurt her, doesn't want to fuck this up even if it's ultimately...well, this is what it is even if there's bit of a romantic fool inside him who wishes it might be more.  </p><p>He opens the door but hesitates.  He's got to give her this.  No harm, no foul, every lady deserves a chance to back down if she changes her mind.  “Alayne, if you’re not sure…”</p><p>She cuts him off by pressing her lips to his.  Soft as rose petals and so sweet.  Her eyes flutter closed.  That's alright.  He was about to drown in them anyway. </p><p>One hand drifts towards her hair and she freezes up.  Shit, maybe she <em>is</em> second guessing this.</p><p>"Not my hair."  He opens his eyes to see hers staring back at him, imploring and with a sheen of tears that melts his heart.  "It's not...my, uh..."</p><p>Oh, he can tell now.  It's a wig.  Why is she wearing a wig?  Really bad haircut? She looks the picture of health but maybe she's been ill or something.  Come to think of it, here in the hallway, her eyebrows seem more of a reddish brown.  He wants to ask why but then doesn't want to spoil this either.  They're Jon and Alayne, two strangers who met in the bar less than two hours ago.  She doesn't owe him her life story no matter how curious he is. </p><p>"It's alright," he says in what he hopes is a gentle, reassuring tone. </p><p>Her lips quirk into a smile then and he wants to kiss her some more.  His hand moves from her hair to cup her cheek.  His other hand lands on her waist and gives a tug before wrapping around her.  Their mouths meet again as they enter the room, the door automatically swinging shut behind them, the lock making its clacking sound like all hotel doors in places like this.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>She’d kissed him first but all his restraint has melted away and gods, the heat of <em>him</em>, his body pressing hers up against the closed door, it's bloody <em>searing</em>. His lips are as soft but firm as she'd imagined earlier.  He kisses her with skill and all that confidence that lurks under the surface.  She loves it.  She's never been kissed half so well as this, she thinks.  </p><p>His tongue sweeps over her bottom lip and she opens herself up to accept him, welcoming the whiskey to mix with her wine. This is hungry, sweet and perfect, a push and pull.  She can feel desire radiating throughout her entire body now, that driving need that’s been building between them since she took a seat beside him.  It's everywhere but presently centering itself between her legs.</p><p>He swallows her moan and makes one of his own, his thumbs brushing across her jaw. “Alayne…Alayne…” he murmurs.</p><p><em>Sansa</em>, she thinks sadly for an instant but banishes that.  She won't be sad.  Not when she's on fire for him this way.  </p><p>Her hands find the lapels of his jacket and he starts shrugging it over his shoulders. “Are you sure?” he asks.  </p><p>She has a feeling it's not the last time he'll ask her that.  “I’m sure,” she says, expelling a shaky breath.</p><p>She toes off her heels as he's unzipping her dress, the hissing whoosh of it giving her goose bumps again...or is that his hot breath at her ear? She fumbles with his belt buckle, the buttons of his shirt, the zipper on his trousers.  She's all thumbs.  He's got her so bound up.  She’s completely lost in the fog of wanting him now, a wanton, pleading mess on the inside.</p><p>Except for one thing.</p><p>“Do you have anything?” She hates breaking the mood for even a second but she’d only meant to have a drink and some conversation tonight. This is her secret escape tonight, not the start of a scandal, not a lifelong commitment and motherhood, right?</p><p>He swallows thickly, temporarily dazed from their actions.  She's pleased to know he's as affected by her as she is by him.  “Yeah, I…in my bag,” he tells her, jerking his chin over his shoulder before diving in for another kiss and letting a hand slip down her lace knickers to cup her bottom. </p><p>"Thank gods," she whimpers and doesn't even mind his cheeky chuckle in reply.   </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p><br/>
"Yes, yes, yes," she chants, rolling her hips in time with his thrusts.  "Oh gods, Jon!"   </p><p>Oh gods is right.  It's been all hurried, relentless touching and grasping, falling onto the bed as one, only mostly undressed.  He wants more, he wants this to last longer but...</p><p>"<em>Unnnn.</em>..fuck!"      </p><p>His hips stutter to a halt and she's staring up at him, her gaze unfocused as she's still riding out her orgasm, her cunt fluttering around his cock.  Gods, she's a vision even in the half light of his hotel room.</p><p>He rolls off of her with a shuddering groan at last, dropping a kiss on her shoulder first. She's perfect, her skin like silk and her sweet mewls had made holding back any longer impossible.</p><p>They’re still panting as they lay beside each other, staring up at the ceiling. But as they start to catch their breath, he dreads making eye contact again.  He wants her to stay the night. Thank the gods for the condom that has been buried at the bottom of his shave kit for longer than he cares to admit. Actually, there’s two more of them and he wants her again tonight.</p><p><em>And maybe taste her next.  </em>What color is her hair down there?  He'd not noticed in their earlier rush and with the room this dark.  </p><p>But this part is often where one-nighters turn awkward and messy very quickly. Once the biological release is achieved, the brain takes over.  Eye contact, residual shyness over having just shared one of the most intimate acts with a near stranger.  The hesitancy, the silent questions and then self-doubt creeps in.</p><p>He doesn’t want it to go that way. He doesn’t want this to end.</p><p>“Will you stay?” he asks, his heart lodged somewhere near his mouth.  How does a woman he met two hours ago leave him rattled to the core when none of Tywin Lannister's goons had managed it?  </p><p>Her eyes meet his and he sees the uncertainty and the questions but he also sees something else. She <em>wants</em> to stay.  “I have a meeting in the morning but…” He hinges on the ‘but.’ He takes her hand slowly and sweeps his thumb across her knuckles, pleading in his quiet way for her to give into what he wants and what she wants, too. “I’ll stay,” she promises.  </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p><br/>
She'd drifted off with his arm around her.  The most amazing climaxes she's ever experienced and the wine had left her pleasantly exhausted and boneless. </p><p>She wakes near four in a panic, head and heart pounding, knowing something isn’t quite right. This is not her bed.  Shit, what has she done? </p><p>But she hears the steady sound of Jon breathing in and out, feels the warmth of his skin against hers where their hips and shoulders touch and something in her loosens to be quickly replaced by an ache she hadn't expected. She's never done this before, never went to a man's bed hardly knowing him at all.  But, it'd been...gods, so good.  Her loins tighten up with the memories. She’s never experienced a night like this with Harry or anyone. </p><p>That's not what this ache is all about though.  It's the dream realized, meeting a handsome man who's interested in her for herself and not for who she is, only to have to put that dream back up on the shelf again, tuck it into her heart.  Her heart had no business getting involved in this.  She's stupid to let it.  It was just sex, wasn't it?  No matter how good it was, no matter how it felt like there could be more than that between them. </p><p>
  <em>What if it could be more though?  What if I woke him up and...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There you go not listening to your good sense.</em>
</p><p>Besides, she's been playing a role.  Yes, she'd been honest in some respects but concealed other very important truths and Jon deserves someone genuine.  He's a kind, intelligent man and deserves better than a ruse. </p><p>This was Alayne's night.  It's time to be Sansa again, a queen and a lady who doesn't have one-nighters with handsome strangers she meets in bars.  She can pine for this particular handsome stranger in secret.  It's all this will ever be, a beautiful, bittersweet secret.  </p><p>Confused, nervous and heartsick, for she’s greatly regretting her subterfuge now, she slips from the bed, tugging on her dress and heels in the dark.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she whispers to his sleeping form. “I liked you very much and I don't want to go…but I’m not who you think I am.”</p><p>This time she makes sure to close the door quietly behind her before she races back to her suite, her responsibilities and her reality.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p><br/>
He stands under the hot water of the shower for ages, wishing it would do something about the pain in his head.  He already knows it won't do anything for the one in his heart.  It's his own fault.  They’d fucked twice and that should've been that. They're both leaving Dragonstone this afternoon, Alayne going wherever in the North (she'd never said specifically) and him back to Kings Landing.  He's stupid to attach more to it.  This is why he avoids one-nighters, why he's careful with women and intimacy.  Because, fool that he is, it hurts when it's over and he's left with nothing.  </p><p>Their first time had been hot, fast and frenzied.  That had been fucking.  </p><p>That second time though, after he’d asked her to stay, it had been different, more like lovemaking.  </p><p>They'd been less desperate that time around but no less eager.  He'd taken the opportunity to taste her first.  He licks his lips as he soaps up recalling how she'd clutched at his hair while his face had been between her legs.  It had been dark in the room but from the way she'd writhed and shuddered under his ministrations, he can picture how radiant she must've looked.  However, he had wondered momentarily if his eyes were playing tricks on him since her hair down there had appeared almost reddish in the half light.  </p><p>Once he'd climbed back up the bed, he'd laid on his back, giving her backside a squeeze with a lazy smile on his face as he'd haphazardly wiped at his beard. <em>"You're so beautiful."</em>   </p><p>Gods, she was.  He feels his cock stirring just remembering Alayne's tits bouncing while she'd rode him, how she'd been crying out his name with that braid swinging between them when she'd climaxed.  It's something he will <em>never</em> forget. </p><p>Then he'd rolled them over, taken her into his arms and held her close, taken his time with her.  It had been all eyes searching faces, mouths worshiping flesh, hands joined together or caressing.  When's the last time he had that...with anyone?   </p><p>It's that thought that stills his sudsy hand beneath the water.  His heart hasn't stopped hurting.  It's hurting worse now in fact.  </p><p>“I really liked you.  I wish you would've stayed,” he says to no one. She’s not there to hear it and she never will be again.  He doesn't even know her last name.  Two ships in the night and all that.</p><p>He turns off the water and towels off. Water and Ibuprofen followed by black coffee.  Just what the doctor ordered.  He’s got thirty minutes to get to his interview with the queen.  He'll have to forget Alayne and focus on Sansa Stark in the coming hour.  </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'll be taking a posting hiatus in June but I plan to wrap this up (and post a couple of other things) before then.  Thank you for reading :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Will you stay?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I wish I could’ve.</em>
</p><p>What if she had?  If Jon had woke to find Alayne still in his bed, how would he have behaved? </p><p>Admittedly, she'd felt shy and self-conscious after they'd had sex the first time but then he'd sweetly asked her to stay and the shyness and self-consciousness had melted away.  And the way he'd loved her afterwards had left her heart yearning for more. </p><p>What if she had stayed all night?  Would he have been different this morning?  More distant?  Ready for her to leave?  Or might they have ordered breakfast in bed and spent the morning much as they had the night? </p><p>
  <em>Don’t be ridiculous.  You couldn’t have hidden under the wig forever.</em>
</p><p>Of course, she <em>had</em> stayed when he’d asked but then she’d snuck off like a thief in the night. </p><p>That’s what she feels like at the moment, a thief, an imposter, a charlatan stealing what she wanted and running away only to wind up empty-handed after all.</p><p>She doesn’t feel remotely queenly as she stares at her reflection this morning.  The wig is gone and her auburn hair is freshly washed and brushed out.  She decides to plait it like the wig just because, a fiery rope of copper instead of sable.  Would Jon still find her attractive if he could see her now?  She knows which room is his.  What would he think if she knocked on his door?  Gods, she's not sure she's brave enough to find out.  </p><p>Like she has a sixth sense (and maybe that girl does), Sansa's phone chimes with a text from Arya:  <em>How'd it go last night?  Has Jory or Mordane threatened to send you to bed without pudding yet?   </em></p><p>Sansa stares at the message, trying to decide how to answer.  They've got their differences but they're also close.  She can tell Arya.  <em>I'm sure they both wish I was still young enough for them to do that. </em> She pauses before answering the first question. <em> Last night went surprisingly well.</em></p><p>
  <em>A:  I was afraid you’d get caught. But surprisingly well?  That's mysterious.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>S:  I did something I've never done before.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A:  Yeah, you snuck out.  Can't recall you ever doing that.</em>
</p><p>Too true.  Maybe if she'd done a little rebelling as a teenager, she would've been content to sit on the sofa beside Tom and listen to him snoring while watching an action movie or gone to bed early.  The girl she was never did anything that wasn't expected of her.  She was always the good girl.  Just like Robb, she'd been raised to set an example for her younger siblings and a kingdom both.  <em>Yes but that good girl might've just accepted the prince's proposal down in Dorne. </em> She's not the same good little girl anymore.      </p><p>
  <em>S:  I did more than sneak out.  </em>
</p><p>She gives her sister, her gleefully astonished but totally supportive sister, an abbreviated version of the night.</p><p>
  <em>A:  Seven hells!  Are you going to talk to him again?!!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>S:  I can't.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A:  Why not?  You've not forgotten which room he's in already, have you?</em>
</p><p>Slim chance of that. <em> S:  No.  </em></p><p>
  <em>A:  You really liked him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>S:  Yes but I simply can't go up to him now and say 'By the way, my name's not Alayne and I wasn't completely honest about my occupation last night.'</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A:  Why not???</em>
</p><p>Sansa's shoulders slump.  Arya would seek him out and tell him the truth if she felt the way Sansa's feels.  But then Arya's never been in the position Sansa is in.  If something happened to Sansa, Arya would likely pass the crown to Bran.  She's dutiful in her own way but she'd never tolerate the lack of freedom this life involves.   </p><p>And asking Jon to get involved with someone like her is far more complicated than he could ever suspect even if she did tell him the truth.  With all the press attention he would suddenly find himself in the middle of, good and bad, he'd be ready to run for the hills before three months passed more than likely. </p><p>
  <em>Talisa didn't.  </em>
</p><p>But can she put Jon through even a tenth of the shitstorm Talisa and Robb endured?  </p><p>
  <em>S:  I've got to go.  Got that interview soon.</em>
</p><p>She silences her phone even as Arya's typing a reply.  She'll explain it better later...and stop doubting herself.  </p><p>
  <em>Will you?  Will it make sense to you by then?</em>
</p><p>It's not like she's afraid of bending the societal rules a bit and marrying a commoner if she met the right man who was willing to put up with the whole three-ring circus that surrounds her so often.  But the situation with Jon is just something she doesn't know how to handle which feels so odd considering she's spent much of her youth and all of the past eight months trying her damnedest to handle any situation thrown her way.  It's tiresome to be honest...and lonely.    </p><p>Returning to her reflection, she gives herself a critical appraisal.  Her eyes are red-rimmed from the wine and lack of sleep.  Neither the hot shower nor the make-up has hid that.  Her throat is scratchy as well.  They’d talked and talked earlier in the night and she’d wound up quite vocal once they'd reached his room.  She blushes at the memories of all the sounds he’d drawn from her in the night.  A skilled lover in more ways than one, as interested in her pleasure as his own. </p><p><em>Enough</em>, she warns herself. </p><p>Her expression is pinched and anxious.  Well, stressed doesn’t even begin to describe Sansa this morning.  Stressed, depressed, defensive and mortified might just about cover it though.  An exhausted but blissful post-coital snooze before she’d woke up panicked and fled was not enough rest for a woman who has been as busy as she’s been during this tour.  She looks forward to going home later today and sleeping for twelve hours straight if she can manage it.  <em>And maybe having a good cry when no one will interrupt me.    </em></p><p>When she’d returned to the suite earlier, she’d found Tom, Jory and the rest of her security detail on the verge of locking down the entire hotel.  Thankfully, Tom had only woken up about ten minutes before her return to find her missing and had alerted the others.  Still, walking into the suite in her red dress and heels with wig in hand to find all five men staring at her?  Well, it had definitely felt like a walk of shame even though all of them save Jory had quickly turned away.  Even Jory had only asked enough to ascertain that she was well and unharmed before they’d left her with Mordane.</p><p>Gods, Mordane.  She loves her secretary.  She does.  But Mrs. Mordane is very old-fashioned, had been her mother’s secretary before hers and has known her since birth, and she’s definitely had a few things to say about Sansa slipping off for a drink and returning in the wee hours of the morning with love bites on her neck.</p><p>“You'll need to cover those up.”</p><p>“I’m trying to.”  He hadn't been remotely rough with her but her fair skin tends to bruise easy.  </p><p>“Here, let me,” the older woman says, taking the stick of concealer from her shaking hands.  “He’ll be here soon.” </p><p>For half a second, Sansa almost thinks she means Jon but that's silly.  There's a different man expected this morning.     </p><p>“We could have you wear a scarf, I suppose,” her secretary says with a scowl as she surveys her handiwork and Sansa's neck.   </p><p>“No, I…this is fine.  Thank you.” </p><p>It’s a decent covering job.  She may have left Jon with a few of them as well but between his beard and the fact he doesn’t exactly have to hide them, she knows he won’t need any concealer.   Her lips twitch in amusement at the thought and Mordane huffs at her.</p><p>“I’m not a child, you know.”</p><p>“Then, don’t act like one, ma’am.”</p><p>“I hate it when you call me ma’am,” she replies in a small voice.  </p><p>Mordane lightly touches her cheek, an affectionate, motherly sort of caress.  “You were always ‘my lady’ or ‘princess’ growing up, weren’t you?  Seems odd for a girl your age to be called that.”</p><p>“You used to call me Sansa.”</p><p>“I still do.”</p><p>“Not as much as you used to.  Sometimes, I wish I were just Sansa.  All the time.”</p><p>“I know…Sansa.”  They share a smile then before Mordane returns the concealer to its bag.  “Did you want a bite to eat?”</p><p>“No.  I don’t think I can eat right now.”</p><p>She’s dreading this interview to be honest.  She can claim jet-lag or fatigue but J. Targaryen is known to be very sharp and quick-witted.  He’s also known to be quite critical of the kingdom’s various monarchies in some of his articles.  It's supposed to be a fluff sort of piece but what if the switch from Margaery Tyrell to him was for some other purpose?  What if he wants to quiz her over some of the North’s economic stutter-steps after the Recession?  Or Lord Bolton’s corrupt abuse of office under Robb’s reign?  That knot in her belly is getting more uncomfortable and she wishes it were the affable Miss Tyrell who was expected rather than worrying she might make some blunder and wind up as J. Targaryen's next exposé.</p><p>“We can always cancel,” Mordane tells her as if she’s read her mind.</p><p>“No, I agreed.  I won’t back out this late.” </p><p>She’s Queen Sansa Stark.  She doesn’t neglect her duties.  Even if her heart is decidedly elsewhere this morning.  </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Are you J. Targaryen?”  </p><p>Jon looks up from the paper he was reading through in the 3rd floor lounge where he’d been asked to meet the queen's man.  Clean cut, muscular, maybe ten years older, an unassuming face but sharp eyes and a serious expression.  Security without a doubt.</p><p>“That’s me.”</p><p>"Right.  I thought you'd be older."  Jon smirks and the man continues.  “I'm Jory Cassel.  I’m Her Majesty’s head of security.”</p><p>“Nice to meet you,” Jon says as they shake hands.</p><p>“Likewise.  Follow me, please.”</p><p>Dragonstone Suites is by far the most luxurious hotel accommodations one can find here on the island but Jon wonders what sort of suite they have to offer royalty. </p><p>
  <em>Probably a very lovely one.  I wonder where Alayne’s room is.  If there's ten floors and eight suites on each floor...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Would you stop?  Do your fucking job.</em>
</p><p>“How long have you worked for the queen, Mr. Cassel?” he asks in an affable tone.  He doesn’t wish to put this man on guard.  This isn’t remotely the sort of story that should put the queen or her people on guard but he's aware of his reputation.  It does help with stories like this if he can get to know a little of the people close to his subject.</p><p>“Just Jory, Mr. Targaryen.”  Jon had suspected he'd prefer as much. </p><p>“Then, you must call me Jon, Jory.”  A hint of a smile.  That's better.</p><p>“I’ve been with the family going on eighteen years.”</p><p>“Eighteen?"  In a position like his, that's a testament of loyalty and mutual respect as much as ability. "So, you worked for King Eddard and King Robb before Her Majesty then?”</p><p>“I did.”</p><p>“What were they like?”</p><p>“Family,” Jory says as they reach the elevators. </p><p>It isn’t the answer Jon expected.  Maybe ‘honorable’ or ‘nice’ or ‘pleasant to work for.’  Not a simple ‘family.’ </p><p>
  <em>Mum wouldn’t have been surprised. </em>
</p><p>His mother had always adored the North’s royal family, said they were different than the other kings and queens of Westeros, stood on less ceremony and valued all their people equally from the highborn to the most humble.  Never waxed on about protocol the way other royals do or made a person stand and listen to some rubbish list of their titles before ever letting them speak.  She had met King Eddard and Queen Catelyn as a teenager when she’d won a writing award at school and been invited to the castle with a group of classmates.  The royal pair had spent nearly an hour talking with the youngsters and his mother had never forgotten it. </p><p><em>“They clearly love each other and love our people, Jon.  That’s why I’m always watching them on the telly,”</em> she’d explained once when he’d been eleven and asked.  <em>“They’re mindful of their duty.  Perhaps stern when necessary but, if you ever met them, you’d see it, too.  Oh, there’s the little princess Sansa!  Isn’t she adorable?”</em></p><p>She’d been around four at the time and it was the first time Jon had paid much heed to the little girl with braids, a shy smile and sparkling blue eyes. </p><p><em>“They’re so kind and their son will be a good king, I’m sure…many years from now, I pray,”</em> she'd added piously. </p><p>Sadly enough, Prince Robb had become king after the tragic and unexpected death of his parents in a plane crash not long after Jon’s own mother had passed.  A boy king who had done his best for a number of years until he couldn’t do it anymore and had abdicated to marry his beloved, a lady from Volantis. </p><p>Jon had been ashamed to be part of the press in the uproar that had followed, the sneers and barbs thrown around about the 'foreign whore' and the 'king led by his prick.'  Some of his colleagues really lack any scruples or decency at all. </p><p>He wonders what Queen Sansa will do in light of the scandal that hounded her brother's final days on the throne.  Will she enter into the dutiful marriage her brother could not?  Toe the line and all?  Of course, she doesn’t have to marry purely for duty, he supposes.  Maybe the Prince of Dorne's quite a swell fellow when you get to know him privately.  <em>Yeah right.</em></p><p>Who says she's got to marry a royal though?  Despite the old preference of royals marrying other royals or at least nobles, she can marry any man of Westerosi birth and not run afoul of the united kingdoms’ laws.  Plus, she <em>is</em> only twenty-two. </p><p><em>Huh...she's the same age as Alayne,</em> he realizes.  </p><p>
  <em>Stop thinking about Alayne!</em>
</p><p>He needs to focus on the queen and this interview.  Even if it's a fluff piece, it's a big deal to get this exclusive with her.  He's the first journalist who works outside of the North she's agreed to sit down with like this.  He's here to do a job.  He's a professional and he can talk to her, maybe even charm her a little to get her to open up some the way Margaery does so effortlessly with other celebrities and politicians.</p><p>He smiles to himself recalling Margaery's teasing words.   </p><p>
  <em>"Maybe a handsome reporter will sweep her off her feet first.”</em>
</p><p>No.  Queen Sansa may be quite beautiful but there’s only one lady in this hotel he’d like to find and sweep off her feet.  <em>Or back off her feet...properly this time</em>.</p><p>It’s only nine o'clock.  Hours until his afternoon flight.  <em>Perhaps if I stake out the lobby after I meet the queen, I’ll see her again.</em> </p><p><em>Back to business, Jon</em>, he chides himself.    </p><p>When the elevator arrives, Jory punches in a special access code to reach the top floor.</p><p>“Whole top floor yours?”</p><p>“Aye, for security purposes.” </p><p>Aye.  Jon’s not heard many people say that word or with such a clear Northern accent in a long while.  He misses it.  Maybe he might take a trip there sometime soon.  <em>Alayne’s there…somewhere.</em></p><p>
  <em>It’s an enormous bloody kingdom!  Focus!</em>
</p><p>“I suppose it wouldn’t do for random people to come knocking on a queen's door in the middle of the night, would it?”</p><p>“Gods no, it wouldn’t.  What kind of idiots would allow that?” Jory says before he starts chuckling.  “But I suppose I may have to start posting a man on her door to keep people <em>in</em> as well as unwelcome visitors <em>out</em>.”</p><p>“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”</p><p>Jory quickly shakes his head, his smile drying up as he shutters his amusement.  “Never mind.  Here we go.” </p><p>They exit the elevator and Jon’s led down the hall to a suite where Jory politely knocks and pokes his head in. </p><p>“All ready, ma’am?”</p><p>“I’m ready, Jory,” a young woman replies from within.</p><p>Jon quickly wipes his palms on his trousers in preparation for his exclusive meeting with the queen.  <em>If you could see me now, Mum. </em> Was she this nervous when she met the king and queen years ago?  Surely, she was. She was just a teenager and he's twenty-nine and a professional.  He shouldn't be so rattled by this.  He's surprised his mouth's suddenly this dry in contrast with his increasingly sweaty palms. </p><p>Despite his mother's words regarding the Starks' kindness, he doesn't wish to come across as a bumpkin or start off on the wrong foot.  He must remember to bow, mind his language and call her 'Your Majesty' when they are introduced and then 'ma'am' afterwards, too.  </p><p>The door opens and he spies an older woman first, no doubt the indefatigable Mordane referenced in Margaery’s notes.  Then, he turns towards the suite’s other occupant who is preparing to rise from the light grey sofa where she was seated. </p><p>She’s wearing a sophisticated but feminine blue dress; however, it's the flaming red rope of hair thrown over her shoulder that catches his eye, strangely stirring memories of Alayne.</p><p>
  <em>Stop it!  She's not Alayne and you need to get your head on straight!</em>
</p><p>But that's precisely when he hears a shocked gasp escape the queen's mouth.</p><p>"Oh gods, no." </p><p>The words are whispered, a terrified denial. </p><p>Confused, his eyes drift from the queen's braided hair to her face and...</p><p>
  <em>Oh shit.</em>
</p><p>He's seen her on television and the papers, yes, but that's not always the same as seeing someone famous in person for the first time.  It's something he's noticed in the past when he's met other royals, politicians or celebrities.  But, he's not an idiot.  No wig could disguise the fact now that he sees her that he's <em>seen</em> this woman before. </p><p>Like literally. </p><p>Just hours ago. </p><p>Literally, he's just seen her hours ago...<em>all</em> of her. </p><p>"Oh shit." </p><p>
  <em>So much for minding your language.  Fuck me.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Um, she did...or you fucked her.  Both would be correct, I guess.  Seven hells!</em>
</p><p>He can <em>feel</em> the other two people in the room with them reacting to her reaction or to his but they're far too well trained in their duties and Jory proceeds to make the introduction.  "Your Majesty, will you permit me to introduce J. Targaryen?"</p><p>Maybe Jon's too well trained as well apparently for, despite feeling utterly gobsmacked (and betrayed somehow-there's a low simmering in his belly already), he starts to make his bow.  "Your Majesty."</p><p><em>"You're </em>J. Targaryen?!"  There's disbelief and what sounds like accusation in her tone. </p><p>His defenses raise.  Does she think he knew who she was last night?  Does she think he planned it?  <em>I didn't approach you!</em>  "Yes, ma'am.  It's, uh...the J. stands for Jon."</p><p>She nods jerkily and he realizes she's afraid.  Her sparkling blue eyes are pleading, imploring him not to say anything.  Oh, of course.  He's the big bad investigative journalist.  What a story it would make, right?  <em>'My Night with the Queen.'   </em>He would never, <em>ever</em> write it and he's hurt if she thinks he could. </p><p>He stares back at her, still dumbfounded but also allowing his vexation to grow even as her face crumples for half a second, piercing his heart.  Just as swiftly, she mercilessly squashes that and recovers her aura of queenly unflappability, her own lifetime of training in courtesy and protocol asserting itself. </p><p>"I'm pleased to meet you...Mr. Targaryen."  <em>Ouch</em>.    </p><p>She holds out her hand and he already knows exactly how soft it will feel in his.  It's seared into his memory banks, holding her hand in his with them clasped between their chests as he'd made love to her that second time and stupidly hoped for something more than a one night stand. </p><p>He shakes her hand, part of him never wanting to let go even as he's wounded by the charade of last night and how she'd left him. </p><p>This feels like he's in a bloody play.  What was last night?  What in the fuck was the Queen in the North doing at The Painted Table with a wig on?  What had she been playing at sitting down next to him and flirting and...all of it?  He's not recognized often but he's not exactly a recluse or total enigma either.  Her people knew he was staying here.  What if she was the one with some agenda when she approached him or...</p><p><em>No, you don't believe that.</em>  He knows her better than that.  <em>Do you?</em> </p><p>All the same, he's got to stop letting his feelings and his shock get the better of him.  </p><p>But, there's no small amount of innuendo in his voice when he says, "I'm sure the pleasure's all mine, ma'am."</p><p>
  <em>The pleasure's all mine?!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Well, it was.  Alright, not entirely all mine but...</em>
</p><p>He clears his throat and starts again.  "My mother met your parents when she was younger."</p><p>"Oh?"  A hint of a smile starts to form.  He had mentioned his mother more than once last night at the bar but not related this story since obviously he wasn't discussing the royal family with Alayne. </p><p><em>Alayne...just a fictitious name used by a girl wearing a wig.  She was never Alayne.  </em>The simmer's becoming a boil.  </p><p>"Yes.  Mum always had the loveliest things to say about them, about how <em>honorable</em> and <em>genuine</em> they were, such admirable qualities, don't you agree?"  She looks stricken and a petty part of him wants to rejoice in it.  The rest of him wants to kick his own arse.  "Anyway, it's an honor to <em>truly</em> make your acquaintance at last, ma'am."  </p><p>Perhaps it's his biting words or tone or their hands touching (he was certainly moved by it) or a combination but something shifts then and he sees it.  She can't continue this pretense.  His blows have landed but they bring him no satisfaction.  He feels hollow for ever letting them fly. </p><p>And in that moment, he truly sees her.  He sees Sansa become Alayne or vice versa.  The sweet, witty girl in the red dress from last night and the Queen in the North merge into one single person for him irrevocably and he's a fool for lashing out.  She's still the lovely girl he'd enjoyed talking to, dancing with, making love to in the wee hours of the night even if it was partly a lie.  He's still nursing some anger but he hates that he has hurt her.  He wishes he could make amends, make this easier for them both somehow.</p><p>She doesn't give him a chance.   </p><p>"If you'll..." she begins, bowing her head before altering it to, "I'm so sorry, sir.  I'm afraid I can't...I do beg your pardon." </p><p>The words end with a pitiful whimper that was certainly a stifled sob before she flees into the suite's bedroom and Jon is left with an understandably perplexed royal secretary and head of security while feeling like an utter shit.  </p><p>"Seven fucking hells."  </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>This cannot be happening. </p><p>
  <em>Of course, it can.  This is precisely your luck.  Secrets always blow up in your face.  Your handsome one night stand is also the man interviewing you today.  Naturally.   </em>
</p><p>She could almost laugh.  Maybe she will except...he probably hates her now.  Leave it to her to meet a man she could quite possibly fall in love with, a man she'd had the most fantastic night with and then screw it all up so spectacularly.  Maybe she'll just cry.  </p><p>Over the years, all four of her siblings have experienced their less-than-savory moments in the limelight.  From Robb getting sloshed at a club when he’d been seventeen and escorted out on video to Rickon escaping from the bath at three and racing past the cameras naked when their father had been holding a press conference in the castle, they’d all suffered an embarrassment or two but nothing quite like this.  They’ve been known to give her grief for never really experiencing the same.  <em>Sansa, the Perfect Princess,</em> they’d called her a few times in not always the kindest of ways.  Well, joke’s on them, she supposes.  None of them has ever had sex with a member of the press whilst pretending to be someone else and wearing a wig, have they?  What a story it would make, right?</p><p>
  <em>Jon’s not like that.</em>
</p><p>Oh, he’s angry and she can’t really blame him and yes, she’s more than a little terrified at the thought of the story getting out somehow but, when she takes a moment to reflect, thinks about the man she got to know last night, she believes in her heart he wouldn’t do that.  He’d been thoughtful and considerate all night, not at all the so-called player looking for another conquest.  And, he’d clearly been hurt by her ruse, discovering the truth this way and to think she might suspect him of spreading the tale.  She feels ashamed. </p><p>
  <em>Then, you ran off like child.    </em>
</p><p>She snorts back a laugh at her own ridiculousness which morphs into a sob.  She thinks if she’d managed to eat earlier, she’d be vomiting at the moment.  <em>Gods, be good.  Get it together.</em> </p><p>There’s a rapping on the bedroom door which she fully expects to be Mordane.  </p><p>It’s not.</p><p>“My lady?”  Chill bumps at just the sound of his voice calling her that.  “I mean, ma’am?”</p><p><em>I liked you calling me your lady more.  I might like to be your lady for more than one night, too.</em> </p><p>“Can we please talk?  For a minute or so at least?  I don’t care about the interview but…Sansa, may I come in?” </p><p>She shudders at his plea and at hearing her given name falling from his lips at last.  She <em>wants</em> to let him in even though she’s embarrassed and confused.  She doesn’t know if they’ll be having an interview today, perhaps not an ordinary one, but she owes him some answers and she can’t hide in here forever. </p><p>She hears Jory speaking, likely on the verge of intervening.  She doesn’t need to be protected from Jon or from this encounter.  She’d made the choice to go out last night, to have her little escape and then to spend the night with Jon.  She’d told Mordane earlier she wasn’t a child.  She’s not so it’s time to stop acting like one. </p><p>Opening the bedroom door, she finds Jon standing on the other side with his hand lifted again to knock and Jory looking ready to take him bodily away. </p><p>He’s every bit as handsome as he’d been last night, despite the evidence of his lack of sleep and lingering touch of a hangover.  She recalls the feel of those soft curls slipping between her fingers, his strong arms holding her on the dance floor and later in his bed.  His intense dark gaze.  His smiles, the wry ones and the few precious affectionate ones.  The rumbling sound of his laughter and the deep velvety husk of his voice when they'd been in bed.  The rasp of his beard against her soft skin and his mouth... </p><p>
  <em>Now, is not the time, Sansa! </em>
</p><p>His eyes are wide, his expression wary so she gives him a smile though her stomach still flutters with nerves.  “Hello again, Jon Targaryen.  I suppose we should get on with our interview, shouldn’t we?”  She steps past him and addresses the others.  “Would you both mind giving us some privacy, please?”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>She looks the picture of ladylike decorum as she sits back down upon the sofa again, feet crossed at the ankles and hands clasped in her lap, a perfect lady. </p><p>And, perfect pervert that he apparently is, he’s bent on torturing himself with memories of what she tastes like and the way her eyes had rolled back when he’d made her fall apart for him last night. </p><p>He scrubs at his beard uncomfortably.  Her eyes track his movements.  He feels so self-conscious.  She must as well but he admires her ability to sit there so still and regal.  He supposes that might come with the territory…or lots of practice. </p><p>The others start to shuffle slowly out of the suite at last after a few terse whispered exchanges.  He’ll breathe a sigh of relief to see them go.  This whole situation is awkward enough without an audience.  He’s not sure how much Jory or Mordane know.  Well, they likely know their queen had been with <em>someone</em> last night but not that it had been <em>him.  </em>They’re bound to be growing suspicious at present.</p><p>Meanwhile, he’s finding it hard to sit still in the armchair opposite her when he'd rather be closer. Rather take her into his arms again, kiss her brow, tell her how much he'd wanted to share his breakfast with her.     </p><p>Mordane had made excuses for her when she’d bolted for the bedroom.  <em>“She’s been quite fatigued the past couple of days, sir, and she didn’t eat this morning.”</em></p><p>They hadn’t wanted him knocking on her door and he hadn’t explained <em>why</em> he’d needed to do it, he’d just done it, knowing Jory was seconds away from throwing him out on his arse right when she’d answered.</p><p>They don’t want to leave her, especially Jory.  Jon can't blame them.  If he was in their place, she'd have his complete allegiance, too.  He supposes she already does.  Regardless, they listen to their queen and make to leave...very slowly. </p><p>“I’m in no danger from this man, I assure you,” he hears her whisper softly to Jory.  It's reassuring to hear.    </p><p>His earlier hurt and anger over the ruse has already faded to nearly nothing but his curiosity hasn’t.  He doesn’t bother pulling out a notebook or setting up a recording device.  Whatever questions get asked or answered today aren’t for any article.  </p><p>The door snaps shut behind Jory and Mordane and they’re alone again at last.  He realizes how much he’d really like to kiss her more than anything at the moment.</p><p>She lifts her eyes from the hands clasped in her lap, her blue eyes locked with his grey.  “I’m sorry for the lies and deception last night.  I'm sorry for running to my room a few minutes ago.”  Her voice is quiet but sincere.</p><p>“Please, don’t apologize.  I’m sorry for how I behaved earlier.”</p><p>“There’s no need for you to apologize.  Your anger was understandable.” </p><p>They nod to one another and lapse into silence, a little awkward patch.  They can weather an awkward patch, can't they?  What else could they weather together?  </p><p>He can’t think of what else to say or what to ask first.  He’s usually not rendered quite so tongue-tied but apparently this woman has that effect on him.  <em>I slept with the Queen in the North last night</em>.  It’s still hard to believe.  <em>I think I’m falling in love with her, too.</em>  He’s afraid of that thought.  He’s not at all sure she feels the same.  There were no whiskey and wine promises or declarations made.  He suspects, like himself, she'd want a completely sober admittance that first time feelings are verbally acknowledged anyway.</p><p>Feeling so very out of his depth, he grasps for <em>something</em> to say.  A compliment is not a bad way to go when it’s sincere, he reckons.  “Your dress is quite lovely.”  <em>It’s nearly the same hue as your beautiful eyes.</em>    </p><p>Her lips twitch into a smile but she starts needlessly smoothing it down.  Is that her own nerves?  Somehow, the thought of her being nervous too helps put him at ease.  “I’m sure you have some questions for me, Jon.”</p><p><em>I’ll say.</em>  He draws a deep breath and dives in, asking the question that’s eating at him the most, not bothering to hide how vulnerable he feels asking.  “Why did you leave like you did?”  </p><p>“I was afraid of you discovering the truth.  I was also wishing I’d never lied to you in the first place.  I knew they’d discover my absence before long as well and that it would be a big deal.”</p><p>“Did they?”</p><p>“They did.  I walked into everyone standing around this room in a state of panic around four this morning.”</p><p>"Sounds rather mortifying."</p><p>"It was."</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Not your fault,” she shrugs.</p><p>“And why did you, um…do it?”  He cringes at how that must sound but she doesn’t appear offended.</p><p>“I had no intentions of sleeping with anyone when I walked into that bar last night.  I just wanted a drink and some conversation with someone who didn't know me.  I’ve never done that before...what we did.  I mean, I <em>have</em> done it before but not with someone I'd just met.  Dear gods,” she groans, covering her eyes as she starts flushing.    </p><p>He bites back his chuckle.  “No, I didn’t think you had.  I just meant…”</p><p>“I know what you meant.”  She sighs and thinks for a moment.  “I’m never alone except at home and even then it just means I might have be left in my rooms to be by myself for a little while.  Eventually, someone’s always coming to me for some reason or another.  I never get to go out alone anywhere like that.  It wouldn’t be safe.” </p><p>He knows it too well.  Her life may have many comforts but it carries more than its share of anxieties and concerns and a distinct lack of freedoms most people take for granted. </p><p>“I never get to meet people without them already knowing my name.  Most of them already have a very clear opinion formed about me before I ever open my mouth.”</p><p>He thinks over his own experiences with fame, recalls his comfort with his semi-anonymous brand of celebrity.  What if his picture was plastered online with every story he posted?  How would he feel if he were sized up the instant he met someone new before he ever had a chance to speak?</p><p>No, he’d still not have experienced what she has since birth.  Rows and rows of photographers had literally camped outside the hospital where her mother gave birth wanting to capture that first image of the little princess when she’d not even been three days old.  He’s seen the old footage.  He can even recall watching the same fanfare from when her youngest brother was born. </p><p>How does she live with that level of constant attention and monitoring?  Scrutiny and curiosity?  There’s never a chance for her to have so much as a drink without anyone following her, without a crowd potentially mobbing her, without someone judging her in some manner. </p><p>"You seemed to like me for who I am last night," she adds, giving him a thoughtful look.  </p><p>"I did.  I do."  His reassurance makes her smile.  </p><p>"It was nice, refreshing to meet someone and be liked for just myself for a change."</p><p>"I can see what you mean although I can't imagine anyone who bothers getting to know you <em>not</em> liking you."</p><p>"And you really liked me?  Not just the brunette in the red dress?"</p><p>Can she doubt that anyone wouldn't love her just for herself?  "I liked the young lady wearing the red dress but she's you no matter your hair color.  Even if you'd never come back to my room last night, I still would've thought of you very fondly.  I like you very much...just the way you are."</p><p>"Thank you, Jon.  I like you, too.  I'm sorry I let fear drive me away."</p><p>"Don't be.  It must be difficult navigating...well, being who you are."</p><p>"The last time I had an experience anywhere close to last night was during my first year at uni.  A young man stopped me to ask directions to class, an exchange student from Braavos.  He was handsome and courteous but he clearly didn’t know who I was and we spoke for several minutes until my security detail started drawing closer and I made excuses about getting to class."</p><p>"You didn't want them to break the spell."</p><p>"No, I didn't.  As it turned out, we wound up in a class together and he sat beside me for the first few lectures.  He was quite witty.  We would share our notes sometimes but sometimes we just discussed the things that interested us, like films or music.”  Her smile over the memory fades.  “Then one day, the professor addressed me as Princess Sansa during class and the next day, he stopped sitting beside me.  He never spoke to me again.  I felt like I’d done something wrong just by being me.”</p><p>What an arse.  “He was probably embarrassed that he didn’t know who you were.”</p><p>“Probably so.  It still hurt.”</p><p>“I’m sure it did.  I’m sorry.  Clearly, he was an idiot.” </p><p>She laughs softly and he cannot bear being this far apart from her.  He’s no fool from Braavos.  He moves from the armchair to the sofa.  Her eyes widen hopefully when he takes a seat beside her and offers her his hand. </p><p>“I hope this is alright, my lady.  I’m not a boy at uni afraid to sit beside a princess…or even a queen.”</p><p>“Quite alright,” she nods, the quaver in her voice filling his heart with affection for her as she places her hand in his.  “I hope you’ll call me Sansa, always.”</p><p>“It would be my honor,” he says, chastely pressing his lips to the back of her hand.</p><p>They share a heated look over the top of their knuckles before she blushes and glances away, tugging at her braid.  “I never expected to meet you last night.”</p><p>“I can understand that.  My face is not well known like yours.”</p><p>"I thought you'd be older."</p><p>He can't help but chuckle.  "I get that a lot."</p><p>"I suppose so.  But more than than, I didn’t expect to meet someone like you, Jon.  Some conversation, a little flirting maybe but I didn’t expect to meet someone who I’d want..."  He can hear her breath catch as she works up the nerve to say, "...something more with."</p><p><em>Something more with.</em>  He wants that, too.  His heart is pounding now.  He wants to kiss more than her hand.  "I never expected to find that either last night but even before you came back to my room, I knew you'd taken hold of me somehow."  His own breath is coming shorter as anticipation builds.  "I wanted you to stay all night.”</p><p>“I wanted to stay, too."</p><p>She leans towards him and he nuzzles her ear with his nose and whispers, "I wanted to wake up with you beside me.”</p><p>She swallows hard, those blue eyes growing steadily more dilated when he licks his lips.  "What would we have done?"</p><p>"Ordered breakfast.  Made love.  Or made love and then ordered breakfast.  Both.  I'd have wanted to make love to you first thing and then ordered breakfast and then...I would've needed some more condoms though," he says thoughtfully and she laughs.  “Sansa, may I take you out for dinner sometime?  I know you're schedule is probably insane but..."</p><p>She presses a finger to his lips.  "You may certainly take me out to dinner."  Her stomach chooses to make the most unladylike growl at that moment and they both start chuckling.  "Or maybe an earlier meal even."</p><p>"And may I kiss you?”</p><p>“You may,” she sighs right before he pulls her into his arms.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Mordane had been quite startled that morning when she’d returned sooner than expected to retrieve her reading glasses. She’d had no intension of walking in on them enjoying a rather heated round of kissing on the sofa with Sansa half on top of Jon where J. Targaryen was supposed to be interviewing the Queen in the North. </p><p><em>"I </em> <em>beg your pardon...really, ma’am!"</em></p><p>Sansa's lovely blue dress had a nicely full skirt and had been hiked quite a ways up her creamy thighs with Jon's hands sliding their way upwards by that point. She’s never quite let either of them live it down in private though she always knocks before entering a room that contains just the two of them these days. </p><p>Sansa can’t recall ever enjoying a late breakfast half so much as the one they’d shared in her bed an hour after her interview was over that day unless she counts the occasional treat of other late breakfasts in bed she’s enjoyed with him like that since then. </p><p>J. Targaryen had missed his flight that afternoon and Queen Sansa’s private jet had been delayed an hour or so. Jon had called his editor and explained the fantastic invitation he’d received to fly to Winterfell and be given a private tour of the royal home. <em>“</em><em>Think how much it’ll enrich the article,”</em> Jon had said by way of an excuse for his prolonged absence from the office.</p><p>He had published an article about his meeting with the Queen in the North the following week, the perfect bit of fluff for royal devotees.  He’d asked Margaery to read over it and give it a little polish in exchange for a byline.  He hadn’t wanted it to come off as <em>too</em> biased in the queen’s favor but really there was nothing nefarious to report.  She’s simply perfect in Jon’s eyes.</p><p>“Maybe <em>she</em> swept you off your <em>feet</em>,” Margaery likes to say by way of teasing. </p><p>“Maybe she did,” he always agrees. <em> My celebrity, or royal crush, turned one-night-stand, turned love of my life.</em> </p><p>What a story it would make...not that he'll ever write it.  Oh, people know they'd met on Dragonstone during an exclusive interview but they know nothing of The Painted Table, whiskey and wine or Alayne and her red dress.  Those things are private after all and even people in the public eye deserve some privacy, too.    </p><p>A queen’s duties are various and never ending and after her tour of the other six kingdoms, Sansa had wished to remain in the North, seeing to her people and their needs as much as possible. </p><p>Jon understands that perfectly.  Lucky for them, one of the advantages of being a renowned journalist, a Scribe recipient to boot with a rather devoted following of readers, was that he could do his writing anywhere really.  Yes, he’d have to travel for interviews and investigations and such occasionally but, whether he flies back to Kings Landing or Winterfell at the end of the day, it makes no real difference at all, does it?</p><p>In the first few months that had followed them leaving Dragonstone, they’d managed to keep their relationship under wraps.  None of Sansa’s staff would betray her and Jon had joked that no one would’ve believed him initially even if he had said a word. </p><p>And, though Jon infinitely prefers his lady’s auburn hair (which he regularly runs his fingers through or enjoys tugging on her braid when the circumstances allow), Alayne’s wig would come out here and there during those early months when Sansa wanted to see something besides the same familiar walls without a security team in tow or flashing cameras hounding them constantly.  Jon thinks one of these days Jory might just forgive him for colluding with the queen in deceiving his men so often.  Sansa promises that he will anyway.</p><p>Of course, the bubble had to pop eventually.  They’ve weathered more than one awkward patch and they figured they could weather being exposed and becoming something of a sensation overnight when one lucky pap had caught Queen Sansa sans wig kissing that commoner J. Targaryen in a club one night in Castle Black of all places, the little hamlet where the intrepid journalist had reportedly grown up.  </p><p>There was a minor uproar over his background from some, not only because he was a commoner but the questions over his parents' marital status as well as his political views and ‘outspoken’ opinions over the years.  They put it from their minds as much as possible and ignored the more vicious things that were said.  And for the most part, the North's people loved them as a couple, couldn’t get enough of them at times.  Only cheers greet them when they attend functions most anywhere these days.     </p><p>Once they were outed, he’d formally made the acquaintance of the rest of Sansa’s family save Princess Arya who he’d met the second morning after he’d come to Winterfell.  She’d nearly frightened him to death when he’d been leaving Sansa's bed and attempting to sneak back to his official guest quarters.</p><p><em>“You’ll get used to it.  She’s always been good at sneaking up on me and she likes you already,” </em>Sansa had assured him. </p><p>The only time Jon had edged close to actually interviewing a member of Sansa’s family though was when he’d met Robb Stark, the last King in the North. </p><p>
  <em>“Do you ever miss it?”</em>
</p><p><em>“Being king?  Gods, be good.  No, I don’t,”</em> he’d laughed, shaking his head.  <em>“It was my duty and I did my best until my heart could not be denied any longer.”  </em>Jon’s seen him with his wife and their children since then and knows Robb Stark doesn’t regret his choice.  <em>“Besides, Sansa’s an excellent queen.  The North couldn’t ask for any better.”</em></p><p><em>“No, they couldn’t,”</em> Jon had agreed.  He only hopes it does not weigh too heavily on her.</p><p><em>“And in Sansa’s case, I don’t think she’ll have to make a choice between her crown and her heart,”</em> Robb added before that conversation had ended.</p><p>No, she won’t. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>It's a beautiful Saturday in May, approximately two years since they first met, when they're breakfasting together on the morning of their wedding day.  Tea for her, coffee for him, pastries, fruit and sausages for both.  They'd worked up quite an appetite earlier.  Not to be ruled by superstition, the queen had certainly told her groom she wanted him by her side for breakfast just as she'd wanted him in her bed last night. </p><p>Nearly a thousand guests are invited from across the united kingdoms as well as other countries.  It's estimated that tens of millions of people will watch footage on television or online later.  They had put their foot down over live streaming.  The wedding's already ridiculously larger than either of them had wanted but some pomp and circumstance is unavoidable they've found and they can handle this.  There are many in their kingdom and beyond who will enjoy watching anyway.  They only wish her parents and his mother could be present for this joyous occasion. </p><p>At present, Sansa is reading through the paper and growing cross.  Jon hopes it's nothing he's written making her so.        </p><p>“I still say it's silly that you can only be my prince consort instead of named my king and consort,” she says, revealing the source of her vexation at last. </p><p>Those right hard bastards in the house of lords had gone against their queen's wishes in this instance and won the day.  Jon doesn't care. </p><p>"The old ways still linger.  A queen may rule or be a king's consort but king's rule.  Prince's are consorts," he says with a shrug, biting his lip to keeping from chuckling at her murderous glare.  "The patriarchy is the very devil, my lady.”</p><p>“Quite right,” she sniffs, casting the paper aside and choosing a croissant to butter.  </p><p>“Someday, we’ll topple it, won't we?” </p><p>She snickers and nods.  Those old fools won't be around forever and his bride-to-be is clever, persuasive and the people love her. </p><p>“Besides, you don’t have to give me a title or anything.  I’m fine with officially remaining Mr. Jon Targaryen and calling you Mrs. Targaryen in private if you’ll allow.”</p><p>“Oh, I’ll allow.  I think I’d like that very much,” she says with a mischievous glint lighting those lovely blue eyes.  “But are you sure you don’t want to be my Prince of Dragonstone, Jon?”</p><p>“I can’t really be the prince of Dragonstone, can I?”</p><p>“No,” she laughs.  “I have no authority there but that’s where we met.  I can always call you that in private if you'll allow..."</p><p>Her hand rests lightly on his and she's batting those big blue eyes at him.  It's nearly an hour until they've got to get ready.  He lays aside his muffin and pulls her into his lap.  "I'll allow," he says with his lips already brushing her throat.  Mordane's sure to thrash him if he gives her any more love bites this morning.  He can endure a thrashing, he supposes.  </p><p>Just then, there's a knock on the door.  <em>Speak of the devil</em>.  </p><p>"Ma'am, it's nearly time for the hairdresser to arrive."</p><p>Sansa shoots him an apologetic glance and starts to rise.  He tugs her back down and tells Mordane through the door, "Tell her to hold fast.  The queen might just opt for a simple braid instead.  Shouldn't take all that long." He can hear Mordane's huff through the door but Sansa's giggling.  "What?  I like my lady's simple Northern braid."  </p><p>"Uh huh.  You like being scandalously wicked too, I believe."</p><p>"Only with you." </p><p>She's tense this morning with the day's madness looming.  It's practically his duty as her groom to help her relax some, isn't it? </p><p>He helps her to her feet, hands her the bowl of fruit from the table before sweeping her off her feet and into his arms, enjoying her startled and delighted gasp.  "It is a very special day.  I think we should start it off right, don't you?"</p><p>She agrees wholeheartedly as he carries her to their bed.  </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks so much for reading :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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